Page 158 of Murder at Donwell Abbey

“He pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes,” Mr. Weston dryly commented. “Quite the clever fellow.”

“Where is Harry?” asked Emma.

Mrs. Hodges held up her hands. “Disappeared. He all but knocked me over in his haste to be gone. It seems he had no intention of getting caught.”

Emma shrugged. “Or of murdering us, so at least that’s one point in his favor.”

“I take it he murdered that poor girl, though,” said Mr. Weston.

“No, that was Guy,” Emma replied.

Mr. Weston looked astonished. “I cannot believe it. Although I suppose I must, seeing he was holding you at knifepoint.”

“He fooled all of us,” she said. “I only hope his father isn’t involved in any of this.”

Mr. Weston shook his head. “Not Squire Plumtree. The man’s as good as they come. This will ruin him, though, poor fellow. I say, Emma, perhaps—”

He was interrupted when Constable Sharpe barreled in from the stableyard.

“What’s all this I hear about smugglers?” he barked.

Then his jaw dropped as he took in the mess around them.

“Good evening, Constable Sharpe,” Emma politely said. “Or is it good morning? I hardly know. But how kind of you to join us. Better late than never, I suppose.”

Mr. Weston started to laugh but covered it up with a cough.

Constable Sharpe stared at her and then shook his head, looking—if she didn’t miss her guess—more than a trifle annoyed.

“Mrs. Knightley,” he pronounced in a dour tone. “Why am I not surprised you’re in the middle of this?”

CHAPTER28

“Father, would you like a cup of tea?” Emma asked. “I’m sure it won’t be long now. George and John should be home from Guildford any moment.”

Her father emitted a doleful sigh. “I don’t know that I have the stomach for tea, my dear. To know that they must visit that vile prison harrows me to the bone. Prisons are such unhealthy places, and on top of that they must ride home in this dreadful weather.”

“I’m sure they’ll be careful,” she soothingly replied. “Don’t forget they took the carriage, so they’ll be protected from the weather.”

Father looked even more alarmed. “But Emma, James and the horses! It’s such a long way to travel from Highbury to Guildford. James will not be happy.”

“They travelled in John’s carriage, remember?” she patiently replied. “John’s coachman and horses are quite used to longer trips.”

“That’s true, Father,” Isabella said from the sofa where she sat with Henry. “Highbury is much closer to Guildford than it is to London.”

“If you say so, my dear. Nevertheless, I will not be easy until George and John are back here and we can put this murder business behind us. I have not been able to sleep these past two nights, knowing that a ruthless killer had been wandering the halls of Donwell Abbey. Thank goodness he didn’t find you, Emma, and that our dear little Henry was able to escape his clutches.”

“Yes, very lucky,” Emma replied.

She exchanged a furtive glance with her sister. In describing the dramatic events at Donwell, Emma had been deliberately vague, particularly regarding Guy Plumtree’s threat to shoot her. After Isabella had recovered from her shock on first hearing of the events—a shock that had required Emma to deploy both smelling salts and sherry—she had readily agreed that the goriest details should be withheld from their father. Of course, all would eventually come out at the murder trial, but that was a worry for another day.

Isabella had reacted quite differently when it came to her son, however. Much to Henry’s mortification, his mother had torn a strip off Emma for placing the boy in danger, and then she had dramatically vowed to never again let Henry out of her sight. It had required Mrs. Weston’s intervention to soothe Isabella’s rattled nerves and, when he’d arrived at Hartfield the next day, John’s robust defense of his son as a brave little chap who’d saved the day.

Miss Bates, sitting on the settee with Mrs. Weston, raised a hesitant hand.

“Perhaps Mr. Woodhouse would prefer a ratafia, Mrs. Knightley,” she said. “Naturally, Hartfield’s tea is superior to anything one could imagine—although of course the tea at Randalls is excellent, too, Mrs. Weston. One could never say anything less. But a nice glass of ratafia might be just the thing to calm Mr. Woodhouse’s nerves. I’ve also been quite unsettled by these dreadful events and would not be averse to a small glass as well.”

Mr. Weston, who’d retreated to a corner of Hartfield’s drawing room to read a letter from his son, put it aside and rose to his feet.